Hand of Ptolemos
The Hand of Ptolemos is an order founded by Rosaline Haines, an undead that served the Mahjarrat Ptolemos, whose returned presence has now taken leadership. Inspired by him and his cause, those under the banner of the Hand of Ptolemos reject the returning gods and dedicate themselves to their removal from Gielinor at any cost. History While serving under Ptolemos, Rosaline was known to travel extensively for unknown purposes. It was later revealed that she was persuading men, women, and creatures to fight for his cause—and for the dark powers he could grant them. She succeeded in gaining the allegiance of several different parties. They took up residence in the many tunnels going throughout the ancient Dragonkin site Ptolemos resided within. However, upon his defeat, the cavern containing the ruins twisted and collapsed upon itself. Few made it out alive. Rosaline, although caught in the initial blast, was able to escape with her life. She gathered the survivors and led them to the Forinthry Ossuary, a place she had history with, and set up their new headquarters. Ptolemos, upon his return, didn't immediately make his presence known. He walked among the newly initiated as an equal, reflecting on the order itself. He was impressed with what he saw. Death Knight Rosaline, or Rosaline Haines as she was now known, was a capable leader, and coupled with Sacheverell's cold logic and Steven's genuine concern for others, they made an excellent committee. After completing his own work, Ptolemos revealed himself solely to the three. They mustn't reveal his condition, he explained, or else the order would crumble. With the three under his guidance, Ptolemos now leads his order from behind the curtain. With the strange appearance of a portal in the forest outside Lumbridge, a small party of members from the order was sent to investigate—and contain, if need be. Led by Marshal Lothar aus Ronasil, they traveled to Draynor but were met with resistance from the local guardsmen. Now they've set up a command post outside the forest, waiting to be allowed entry. Membership The Hand of Ptolemos accepts all races, as long as they dedicate themselves to a godless life. They have also been known to take prisoners of war and brainwash them. Regions The Hand of Ptolemos operates throughout the breadth of Gielinor. They are continuously working on spreading their influence and have seen an increase of intiates as a result. Relationships Presently, the Hand of Ptolemos has one ally: the Keepers of the Balance. They consider anyone fighting for a god or goddess their enemy, although they have yet to fight anyone other than roving warbands. Notable Members *Rosaline Haines, the undead leader. *Steven Weaver, a druid. *Sacheverell Lessard, an icyene. *Brondn, a hill giant, brainwashed to serve the order. *Rekhyt, a humble initiate. *Lothar aus Ronasil, the highest ranking soldier in the order. Storyline A Helping Hand It was a rough night. My party and I had taken shelter in an inn, thinking to wait out the worst storm we've ever seen. The place was packed with all sorts of characters—dwarves, a few gnomes, even a goblin here and there. But most were human, as far as I could tell. Dain swore he'd never seen such a storm before despite the fact that he's only been living out of Keldagrim for about a year now. I started to remind him of that, but he interrupted me with a wave. "You're buyin'." He then sat down at a table with Nabfi. The two began exchanging battle stories. Setra came up to me and smiled. "You'd think they'd run out of battles to speak of by now." I snorted and shook my head. "If only we were that lucky." She laughed and we both joined the two after I ordered a round for us. About two hours passed before we realized the storm was going nowhere. Nabfi looked uneasy. It was the first time I'd ever seen the Karamjan anxious. I heard him mutter something in his native tongue. Setra must've heard because she cast him a reassuring smile. "Don't worry, Nabfi. I'm sure it'll blow itself out soon." Nabfi shook his head and said nothing. "Bah! It better," Dain said, adding, "we've already been delayed twice now." As usual, the dwarf had already drank more than the three of us combined. "By Guthix's beard, I'll-" He stopped. An uncomfortable silence fell over the room. Dain flushed and tried to hide inside his beard. I glanced around at the other patrons and smiled apologetically. No one returned my look. The news was still too fresh for a lot of us. I saw one of the gnomes wipe away tears before returning to her glass. "Try and be a little more respectful, will you?" I hissed. Dain murmured an apology while Setra sat, shamefaced, her eyes on her ale. Gradually, the noise returned. I laid back in my chair and sighed. No one needed to look outside to know the storm was still raging. The four of us sat there for a while in silence. I wasn't sure what to say; in fact, I don't think anybody did. Not after what Dain said. Nabfi was staring out one of the windows when he suddenly sprang out of his chair and started for the door. Setra and I shared puzzled glances. "Where are you going?" Dain shouted after him. Nabfi dashed out into the heavy rain and disappeared almost immediately. A few patrons were now watching to see what happened next. A minute passed and I frowned. I'd known Nabfi well over three years now, and he wasn't one to act without reason. I was about to tell the others to wait while I went and got him when Nabfi emerged from the rain, carrying with him a man who looked half dead. The three of us sprang into action. I went to help Nabfi carry the man, while Dain rushed out into the storm to see if there were others. Setra, after examining the man, began listing out ingredients for the barkeep to fetch for her. We laid him on our table, brushing our glasses aside. Before I could ask, Nabfi spoke. "I saw him through the window. He was on horseback, alone." Dain came back inside and confirmed it. "His ride looks about as good as him. Man must've ridden day and night, and in this storm..." He shook his head. Setra led the barkeep over to the table with the supplies. "He's suffering from a fever, likely from overexertion and the storm." She paused to prepare a mixture, her lips pursed. "Why would he ride in it? It doesn't make sense." The patrons were now watching us, their attention fixated on the mysterious arrival. I looked to Nabfi and spoke. "Tell them he's one of ours who's arrived late. We don't need them crowding whoever this is." Nabfi understood and did as I said. I turned my back on him and inspected the man for myself. The man was wearing a guardsman uniform, although he looked no older than twenty. I signaled for the barkeep and asked him if he knew the uniform. He told me the insignia was Peakstone's, a small town only a few days ride on horseback from the inn. I thanked him and paid him for the extra supplies Setra was using. I knew then that something was wrong. It took some time, but with Setra's knowledge of herblore, the guardsman finally woke. He was delirious at first, but eventually calmed down with Setra's reassurance. He introduced himself as Alac and was indeed a guardsman from Peakstone. Once started, he didn't stop until all was explained. Peakstone was under attack by bandits from the Wilderness. Normally such bandits never ventured far out of the gods-forsaken land, he said, but these were no ordinary ones. Led by a hill giant, they declared themselves fighting for some ancient god. The people of Peakstone were caught by surprise. Alac himself had fled during the fighting, he told us, in hopes he might find people to help save the town. Exhausted, he could go no further. Before falling unconscious, Alac begged us to help the town. My companions and I shared looks. If what he said was true, it meant lives were in danger. We were obligated to help them, no matter the cost. I told the barkeep what was going on and asked for directions to Peakstone. He told me them, and then said he'd care for the man. I thanked him once more before leading my party out of the inn. As we prepared our mounts in the pouring rain, I overheard Dain grumbling. "That makes three..." We were fortunate; the storm died down until it was nothing more than a light drizzle. We spent the night and a good portion of the morning riding for Peakstone, but stopped for the afternoon to rest. We picked back up in the morning and rode once more. It took us about four and a half days to get to Peakstone. By our third day, we saw the smoke. It rose lazily into the clear sky above. Dain said it looked almost as if a god were reaching down their finger to the earth. I suggested we hurry and the others agreed. Nabfi rode ahead to scout the area and see whether or not the town had survived the week by itself. When he came back, I could tell from his dark mien that it wasn't good. We increased our pace. We reached the town a little after high noon. The place was a wreck. Dead bodies littered the ground; entire houses were nothing more smoldering shells of their former selves. The surviving town militia wandered the streets aimlessly, while civilians picked through the debris to see if they could find loved ones. This was no bandit attack...it was a warzone. We questioned a few of the guardsmen and found out their leader, a forty year veteran, had led an assault to push the bandits back. After that he made the townhall a shelter for the civilians and the house next to it a temporary headquarters for him and the milita. He and his men had been doing their best to push back the bandits whenever they attacked, but their numbers were dwindling after each encounter. It seemed like we had arrived just in time. We made our way to the militia's headquarters and explained ourselves to him. "Damn Alac, the fool," were his first words to us. "But at least he got us some support. Where are the rest of your men?" Dain scuffed the floor with his boot and replied sourly. "You're looking at them." The mayor wasn't impressed. We spent the remainder of the day discussing the forces they were attacking, as well as strategies. While we were escorted to the end of town where they came from, Setra caught sight of one of the enemy's amor and gasped. "I recognize that symbol! It's the symbol of Bandos, the god of war. But his followers are never this organized, unless..." She shook her head, confused. I raised my voice in response. "God or not, we've got to put a stop to this," I turned to the mayor. "Set up a barricade here and get your men ready. This ends tonight." We finished the barricade just before the first torchlights came up from the enemies' front. They were at least fifty strong from what we could count. I didn't like our chances, but these people needed us and I wasn't going to let them down. Not while I still lived. The mayor rallied his men while I rallied my own. Although the situation was grim, they had decided to fight with me. The war-horn was sounded. The bandits surged towards the town, weapons raised. Their cries filled the air. Under the mayor's order, the town militia launched a wave of arrows once the enemy was within range. The first line of bandits, which were mostly goblins, were struck down. Despite their losses, the bandits kept coming and crashed into the barricade. My companions and I fought together. Setra launched magical bolts into the enemies' ranks, crippling some with solid earth and setting others aflame; Nabfi and Dain both threw themselves into the mix, slashing and slicing with their blade and axe; I stood nearby, supporting the three with my own supply of arrows. As the barricade fell, the town militia charged into the fray. I couldn't say how long we fought for. The bodies of both goblin and man lay strewn across the street, the symbol of Bandos and the insignia of Peakstone on the breastplates. When I saw the bandits began to retreat, I thought we had won. But I learned quickly that the battle was far from over; they were merely regrouping before their next assault. A quick glance told me that the guardsmen of Peakstone were in no shape for another fight. I prayed for a miracle as the bandits struck again. I couldn't defend my companions as I had before. A hill giant, who I recalled as the bandit leader, lumbered before me with a javelin in hand. He threw it with such force that it went through one of the guardsmen and entered another before stopping. I used the last of my arrows to try and put him down, but his skin was tough. He turned his gaze upon me and grabbed another javelin from its case. It left his hand and caught me. Although it was a glancing blow, I felt several of my ribs bruised and broken nonetheless. As I fought my own battle, my companions did the same. Setra, I saw, was engaged in a magical duel against a powerful goblin shaman while both Nabfi and Dain were surrounded by bandits, fighting a losing battle. I heard the mayor call for his men to fall back. Meanwhile, I stood my ground, eyes upon the giant before me. He watched me with amusement and reached for the javelin that would finish me off. It was then that a shadow fell over us both. I looked up and saw, to my amazement, a griffin! It screeched and flew straight into the hill giant, knocking it off its feet. There was another war-horn blown behind us. I turned and saw men and women of all races charging through the streets to clash with the bandits. They slaughtered them without mercy, cutting down all that wore the symbol of the god Bandos. Those that fled were chased down, but what fate befell them I cannot say. The hill giant was wrestled to the ground by the griffin. Although he struggled, the hill giant was quickly binded with chains and ropes by some of the new arrivals. I watched as they hauled him away by cart. My companions came to stand beside me, looking just as confused as I was. We watched as a knight, a woman I think, approach the mayor of Peakstone and start talking with him. Her armor was adorned with a strange handprint. I also thought I saw something around her neck, but a druid stepped between us before I could make it out. "Hail, adventurers," he said, making a gesture with his hand. "You fought bravely, I see." I cleared my throat and asked the question that was on both my mind and those of my companions. "Who are you?" The druid smiled. "We are the Hand of Ptolemos." They were an order, he said, formed by Rosaline Haines, the woman speaking to the mayor. He spoke of someone named Ptolemos, who fought the gods to free his race but was ultimately betrayed by them. Although he was killed, his followers refused to give up. Now led by Rosaline, they fight the gods and their followers in order to drive them and their influence from the world. The town of Peakstone, he said, was fortunate that the wizards within the order had divined out the bandits' presence. Someone started shouting near us. Looking over the druid's shoulder, I saw it was the mayor. He was in an heated argument with the lady knight. The druid sighed. I asked him if he knew what the problem was. "Unfortunately, our leader has decreed that in order for our order to grow, it requires more resources than we can provide ourselves," he said softly. "She had a special relationship with Ptolemos and, as a result, is far more radical than I." The two's arguing had gained the attention of several others by now. Members of the Hand of Ptolemos reached for the weapons, their expressions dour. The druid looked somber. Rosaline's voiced could be heard over the wreckage of the town. "If you don't agree to our terms, we can take all of your wares and your lives." She paused, letting the threat soak in. "You should count yourself lucky that we arrived in time. Now unless you have anything else to add...I didn't think so." She turned and left the seething mayor by himself. With a shout, the forces of the Hand of Ptolemos began to withdraw from the town, taking what they wanted. The druid offered his sympathy to us and the mayor and bade us farewell. He hurried over to his leader, who was busy mounting the griffin that had felled the giant. I overheard their conversation. "Don't you think you're being too harsh on these people," he asked in a hushed tone. "They've lost so much already." "They have their lives, Steven. That's all they need." It was a curt response and left no room for argument. "I...understand." "Good. Tell the men to return to the Forinthry Ossuary, and inform Sacheverell of our new guests." "Yes, ma'am. But where will you-" It was too late. The griffin had kicked off and soared into the sky. The druid watched it disappear above the clouds before leaving to do as he was told. My companions and I remained with the town. We, like them, were in no condition to travel far. The dead were disposed of properly, either burned or buried. With no supplies of any sort, the town could not be repaired. With each day that passed the townsfolk spoke of abandoning Peakstone. We did what we could to help those who had suffered. In time, our injuries healed enough were we could travel once more. We could've left with the first of the caravans leaving the town, but we decided to stay until only one was left. The mayor led this one. He'd remained to make sure all of the surviving townsfolk were gone before going himself. My companions and I left Peakstone together, with him. I like to think that what we experienced that day forged a bond between us, tighter than any metal on RuneScape. The Hand of Ptolemos had saved us, but at a great cost. Crossed Fingers It was uncomfortably warm inside the Forinthry Ossuary—at least, that was the impression Rosaline got from seeing and hearing her peoples' complaints. She, however, felt only cold and an emptiness that nothing would ever fill. But that was her gift given to her by Ptolemos and she took it in stride. Although it seemed like a lifetime ago, she had walked these halls once before as a follower, not a leader. Many things had changed since then. The Forinthry Ossuary had been abandoned since Azulra's attack led to its occupants' death. Rosaline recalled the event clearly. She had ordered her monks to face the mahjarrat's demons, knowing they had no chance of survival, while she herself had retreated into the temple in order to send a message to her master. She had succeeded, but was unfortunately unable to escape in time. What the demons did to her under Azulra's orders... "Rosaline?" a man's voice called out. It was firm and alluring, and dragged her back to reality. She found herself lying bare on a stone slab, long enough to support her whole body. The room she was in was small and dark, filled with countless shelves and an alchemy lab. A robed figure stood at the end of the slab, not the least bit distracted by her nakedness. "Were you listening?" "Yes, I heard," she answered, clicking her tongue. "So what? It won't stop me, Sacheverell." "Yes, it can," said the icyene, sighing. He proceeded to walk beside the slab, tracing it with a finger. "Your body is deteriorating without Ptolemos' magic. If you continue to strain it, it will fail you." He stopped in front of an alchemy lab and started to prepare something. "It won't-" was all she managed to say before being interrupted by a beaker being shoved in her face. "Drink this." Rosaline was about to ask him what it was, but he interrupted her again. "It'll slow your body's decomposition rate and help preserve it against weathering." Shrugging indifferently, she did as he told her and wasn't surprised to find that it tasted like ash. Everything tasted like ash to her now. Sacheverell was back beside his alchemy lab when she started to talk once again. "You shouldn't waste your time fixing me these medicines, Sacheverell. I won't need them once I find him''." The icyene scoffed. She continued angrily. "I know you don't believe me, but it's true: Ptolemos is alive. I can feel it." "What I believe doesn't matter. What I know is that you lead these men and women, and without you they would fall." Rosaline regarded him closely. He had been one of the first she had recruited to their cause after finding him living alone in the mountains. Sacheverell Lessard was his name, an icyene that had turned his back on his lord after the disaster that was the God Wars. When questioned why, he accused Saradomin of leading his people to their death. Because of his answer he reminded her of Ptolemos. "They can take care of themselves." Rosaline pushed herself off the slab and started to get dressed. "I'm going now." Sacheverell stayed silent. After fitting her armor back on, she made for the door. Only when she was leaving did he speak to her. "If you're not careful, these little escapades of yours will be the death of you." Navigating the Forinthry Ossuary was now harder due to the recent influx of recruits they had received. Many of them were freshfaced men and women with little combat experience whatsoever. Some were grizzled mercenaries who had been paid for their services. A few of them were of the exotic sort that they had come across during one of their campaigns in the Wilderness. Despite their differences, all of them had been given room and board within the temple until it was full. Those that had no room pitched up tents outside. As she left the temple, Rosaline noted that they had gained even more recruits than she previously thought. There were far more tents this morning then there had been last week. We will soon be a force to be reckoned with, she thought. Raising her fingers to her mouth, Rosaline whistled. Another whistle answered her call. Looking up, she watched as a griffin glide down beside her and incline its head in greeting. "Skelkesh," she answered in turn. The griffin had been a gift from Sacheverell. He had befriended, or bewitched as some say, a nest of griffins to fetch food for him durings his time spent living in the mountains. They were brought along when he moved to the Forinthry Ossuary. He even had some of the dwarves craft them an aerie far above the temple. Skelkesh was a mother-griff, with two grifflets in her care. Her nest and children were protected in exchange for her service. Skelkesh said nothing to Rosaline. Her vocal cords had been torn when she and the father-griff had fought long ago. Rosaline enjoyed the silence and was fond of her for that exact reason. "We're leaving now." Skelkesh nodded once more and lowered one of her wings. They pushed off into the sky once Rosaline mounted her. As they drifted higher and higher, one of the gargoyles on the temple lifted its head and watched them disappear into the horizon. For the past few weeks Rosaline had started to notice something peculiar. The abyssal ants that Ptolemos had brought from another realm were reportedly showing up in places they had never been before. At first she thought it was nothing more than pure happenstance. But the longer she dwelled on it, the more she began to believe that there was something going on. After conductiing her own investigation, Rosaline discovered that the ants were not simply moving aimlessly—they were migrating. She had been tracking their movements ever since her discovery. Only recently did she realize that they were moving towards the North. That was her destination now. They flew the day away and were well into the night when a fierce snowstorm forced Skelkesh to take shelter in an icy cave. Rosaline foresaw this and had come prepared. "Wait here until I return," she ordered while putting on the Fremennik-style fur cloak she had brought with her. The griffin nodded and settled in the far back of the cave. Rosaline then marched out of the cave and immediately vanished in the snow. Rosaline had been to this area a few times before, but her sense of direction was all but lost in the snowstorm. She couldn't even see her hand when held in front of her face. More than once she thought about returning to the cave. It was unlikely, however, that she could even find her way back now. She continued forward, determined to reach her destination. A few hours passed and still the snowstorm raged. The cold climate was starting to affect Rosaline's body; her movements were starting to become rigid. Angrily, she recalled Sacheverell's words: "If you're not careful, these little escapades of yours will be the death of you." Her mind was assailed by doubt and frustration. But there was no turning back now, and so she carried on. What Rosaline came across next surprised her. It was a campsite nearly buried beneath snow. Upon investigation, she uncovered its owner was none other than the late Fykeric Bliem. This must be where he lived when Ptolemos ordered him here, she concluded. She quickly made a fire with the camp's supplies to keep her body from freezing. While waiting out the storm, Rosaline uncovered the dead man's journal and read through it. She was amused at his entries. His last one, however, wiped the smirk off her face. Rosaline left the campsite as soon as the snowstorm receded enough to where she could travel without being hindered. The brief rest had revitalized her—if not in body, then in spirit. She could see now and increased her pace with each step. She had to know the truth...she had to. It was morning by then. The white snow glared in the sunlight, forcing Rosaline to cover her eyes. When she could see again, her heart nearly skipped a beat—if it were beating, that is. A trail of red ants extended from the woods nearby. They were flowing north like a river of blood. Rosaline wanted to feel excited, but fear gnawed at her. The last entry in Fykeric's journal was burned into her mind. She had to force her feet to follow the ants. More time passed. The ants never slowed, never faltered. They were heading to one place, the same place she was headed: the site of the ritual of the Mahjarrat. Curse that fool of a cleric, she thought. What did he know? In the end, his faith had cost him his life. He couldn't possibly know... Rosaline came to a halt. Ahead of her stood the ritual marker. Rosaline felt numb. Her tongue swelled and her bowels turned to water. She knew it was all in her head, but that didn't mean she wasn't vulnerable to its effects. Meanwhile, the ants were still going on without her. They were climbing up and over the marker as if it were just another obstacle in their path. Rosaline commanded her body to move. She had to learn the truth. Rosaline moved forward, inch by inch. She wanted to know what was behind the marker. She had to know. Her view, however, was blocked by the large stone, so she kept walking forward. She hesitated before it. It wasn't long ago that her master stood here, perhaps in this very same spot, to rejuvenate himself. One of them had even been killed here... She shoved those thoughts aside. The ritual marker was all that stood between her and the truth. Drawing a deep breath, Rosaline walked around it. What she saw made her fall to her knees and sob. Standing before her was no one. "You were supposed to be here," Rosaline shouted. "I followed the signs!" She received no answer. The ants were the only other life forms with her. The ants.'' Rosaline got onto her feet and staggered over to the trail of them. They were still moving after climbing down the stone. She followed them with her gaze, staring as they walked over the edge of the plateau. Dashing to the edge, she looked over it and watched as the last of the ants crumbled into ash mid-fall. Rosaline snapped. She roared and threw herself at the stone behind her. She beat it with her fists until they were a bloody mess. Even then it didn't sate her anger. "You piece of shit! I trusted you, I believed in you!" Rosaline rounded the ritual marker and yelled into the woods. "I followed you when no one else did!" Her voice cracked. "I loved you and you left me..." She reached beneath her armor and plucked the three-fingered amulet she wore from around her neck. It was a token of her devotion, her love. But more importantly, it held the last sliver of her master's mahjarratbane. Rosaline threw it with all her force and watched as it sailed through the air before disappearing into the woods. "Now what do you have?" Silence. Rosaline gritted her teeth and trudged off. A Slap on the Wrist Steven Weaver was tired. He'd been spending a lot of time traveling the world, speaking in different kingdoms and cities about the Hand of Ptolemos and the Godless. So far he'd won over a few people with each visit, and hopefully those individuals would go on and spread the word further. However, recruiting was not the only thing he'd been doing during his visits. Because of him, alliances were being forged between the Hand of Ptolemos and other like minded groups. It was his job as the ambassador of the Hand of Ptolemos after all. Steven stretched out on his cot. He was glad to be home—for the moment, at least. His position granted him one of the finer rooms in the temple know as the Forinthry Ossuary, which he was thankful for. The temple was cramped enough because of the amount of people living inside it and, as a result, the air was stifling. Rosaline Haines, after returning from the North, had the dwarves tunnel into the mountain in order to accomodate new members. So far they'd made excellent progress, with many new rooms already filled with people and their families. Steven was worried about Rosaline. Upon her return, she had locked herself in her chambers and was only admitting Sacheverell entry. She left it only once when discussing the issue with the dwarves and their tunneling before returning to her room. The icyene, when questioned, divulged nothing about their meetings. Steven mused, then, that whatever Rosaline had found wasn't what she expected. Lost in his thoughts, it took a minute or two before he became aware the warning bell. Steven left his room to investigate and was immediately plunged into chaos. The halls were filled with men and women of all races racing this way and that. Soldiers and civilians alike pushed and shoved in their attempts to get where they were going. Steven was forced to shout above the cacophony of voices and bells to get the attention of one of the soldiers. "What's going on? Are we under attack?" The soldier nodded gravely and gestured down the hall. "Mountain trolls, sir," he said. "They've broken through the tunnel and have seperated our forces. Best you evacuate like the rest of the civilians." Steven thanked him and let the soldier go. I need to find Rosaline and tell her, he thought. She'll know what to do. Familiar with the route, Steven fought his way through the crowd to reach it. He found the door locked upon arrival. "Rosaline," he shouted, hoping she could hear him above the noise. "Are you in there?" There was no answer. He tried again and received the same result. Frustrated, he turned to leave when the door was opened by none other than Sacheverell. "Rosaline's preoccupied at the moment, Steven. Tell me what's on your mind and then you may leave." "What?" Is he serious? "Don't you hear the bells? Trolls have breached the temple! We need to-" Sacheverell cut him off with a gesture. "I'll inform Rosaline of what's happening," said the icyene, continuing, "I suggest you get yourself to safety while you still can." "There are people trapped in those tunnels!" Sacheverell ignored him and was closing the door. Steven stuck his foot in the doorway. "Let me speak to her, Sacheverell." "I'm afraid that's impossible." Steven was about to start again when Sacheverell withdrew into the room. A figure stepped up to take his place, was silhouetted against the candlelight from within. Steven gave a sigh of relief. He didn't need to see her to know who stood before him. "Rosaline," he started saying. Before he could continue, her hand shot out and grabbed him by the throat. He choked on his words as she lifted him off his feet. His struggles to break free were of no avail. "Listen well, Steven. I won't repeat myself." Her voice was cold, and she wore nothing but a thin white gown. "You are going to find and order the wizards to collapse the tunnel." Steven tried to say something, but Rosaline tightened her grip further, cutting him off. "Don't speak. Nod if you understand." He did so. "Good." She let go of him. Steven fell to the floor, coughing and gasping for air. He blinked to clear his vision of the stars he saw. The door in front of him was closed by Sacheverell, now standing in the hall with him. "I apologize for her behavor," he said, helping Steven to his feet. "She has grown impulsive ever since her return. I hoped to spare you her wrath, but..." He started down the hallway, beckoning for Steven to follow. "Why?" Steven rubbed his bruised neck, his voice hoarse. "Why is she acting the way she is? I can't tell you." "But those people..." "Acceptable losses." By now the civilians in the temple had been evacuated. The halls were empty. Sacheverell motioned for Steven to stop. The two had come upon a fork in the hallways; one led to the exit, the other the tunnel. "You have ten minutes before I return with the wizards. Ten," Sacheverell warned, emphasizing the word with a gesture. "Try to get as many of our people out of there." Steven nodded. "I understand." "Go, then." As Steven sprinted down the hall, Sacheverell's voice called after him. "Ten minutes!" The cries of battle increased as Steven sped down the halls. He came across the first corpse at the entrance of the tunnel. It was a goblin, one of the few to have joined the Hand of Ptolemos. He picked up a sword that lay next to it. Steven had never received any combat training of any kind, so it felt heavy and clumsy in his hand. But he would need it nonetheless. Ahead of him rang the clash of metal and flesh. Steeling himself, Steven went to meet it. He came across more bodies further in. Dwarves, humans, goblins, and trolls lay in pools of blood, their unseeing eyes open and, he thought, watching him. He called out, trying to reach the others above the sound of battle, while searching the rooms for any survivors. He found a young child and her mother hiding beneath their bed. After telling them it was safe to enough to leave, he continued onward. How many minutes have passed, he asked himself. He came across a few more survivors; two arguing goblins, an elderly human, and a wounded dwarf. After some encouragement, Steven managed to persuade the dwarf to accept the aid of the goblins. They quickly disappeared down the way he had come. Meanwhile, the elderly man was having difficulty navigating his way through the slippery, cluttered hall. Steven was deciding whether or not he should offer him help when he heard it. Chanting echoed throughout the tunnel. Magical words, words he couldn't understand filled the air. The walls of the tunnel started to shift. Steven froze. His ten minutes were up. He saw the elderly man ahead of him turn and cry out. At the same time, he heard movement behind him. Steven spun and held his sword out just as a troll lunged for him. He felt himself falling... The wizards were gathered a few feet in front of the tunnel. They were chanting, runes held in their hands. Off to the side was Sacheverell, observing them. So far he had seen a few survivors make it out of the tunnel: a mother and her daughter, two goblins, and a dwarf. There had been no sign of Steven yet. Sacheverell frowned. The chant was reaching its climax. The tunnel was starting to twist and writhe beneath the combined magic. It tunnel was beginning to collapse. A shout came from the tunnel. Sacheverell saw two men slipping and sliding down the tunnel, It was Steven and an older man. The bloodied druid was helping the other man run. Sacheverell determined that they wouldn't make it at the rate they were going. He glanced at the wizards. Steven knew he wasn't going to make it. Although he managed to kill the troll, it had cost them too much time. The floor and ceiling had the consistency of sludge. Moving was difficult, but they had to try. They were so close... Steven stared at the wizards with pleading eyes. None of them saw him, enthralled as they were by the magic. Without warning, one of the wizards collapsed. The others were too busy concentrating to notice, although they felt the strength of their spell decrease. The destruction of the tunnel slowed by a fraction of a second. Although it didn't seem like much, the lapse provided just enough time for the two to escape the tunnel. Steven flung himself and the old man out of the tunnel just as the magic destroyed it. Later that evening, Steven was sitting by himself outside the temple, waiting for its repairs to be finished. It had suffered minor damages during the attack, but they were only superficial. The wizards had been efficient. Not a soul survived the tunnels collapse. He learned later that Sacheverell was the one who saved him by knocking over one of the wizards. Those he saved personally had came to thank him, but Steven paid them little attention. His thoughts were of Rosaline. He was waiting for her to show herself, to confront her about what had happened. The doors to the temple opened and out strode Rosaline. Steven stood up and watched her. She saw him almost immediately and, after stopping to speak with one of the soldiers, made her way over to him. "Steven," she said with a hint of amusement. "You look well." He knew she was looking at the bruise around his neck. "You killed those people, Rosaline." "I think you're mistaken," she retorted. "You relayed the order, did you not?" He glared at her in response. "Don't look at me like that. You saved the temple," Rosaline said, adding with a sardonic smile, "you're a hero to these people." She winked at him, laughed, and walked off. At that moment Steven didn't feel like a hero. Gallery HandSymbol2.jpg|The symbol of Ptolemos' sacrifice. It can be found adorning members' clothing or used as a greeting. HandSymbol1.jpg|One of these are known to be carried by Rosaline Haines. Rumors insist they are enchanted and that only the most devout members carry them. Rekhyt2.png|Rekhyt, an initiate in the Hand of Ptolemos. Ronasil1.png|Lothar aus Ronasil, Marshal of the Hand of Ptolemos' forces. Rosaline1.png|Rosaline Haines, founder and second-in-command of the Hand of Ptolemos. Trivia *The concept for this ordercame after the conclusion of the The World Wakes and the repercussions such an event can have. *The order's symbols are known as the Vulcan salute. Category:Cult Category:Faction Category:Organization Category:Godless